


First she becomes a bird

by DuVallTheGhost



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25132522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuVallTheGhost/pseuds/DuVallTheGhost
Summary: A possibility for what happens after she goes. My opinions about how things could have gone another way.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	First she becomes a bird

First, she becomes a bird.

Willa remembers who she is and who she was, years and years ago, when she was (just) a little girl with a sister who she liked, a sister who she hated, and a crazy father. She remembers the newer things—things that happened, things that were done to her, and, later, things she chose to do.

She remembers the events, and what she felt at the time. But it seems much more distant than when she walked on the ground. The rage and pain and shame and bitterness are there, she can touch them, but they seem far away. She flies and glides, and the wind carries her, and she can see and feel what her life was, but she can separate from it. She doesn’t have to feel every moment all at once, the way it seemed to her to be in the last days when she was with her sisters.

There’s a lot she doesn’t remember, from after she opened the door until now. She remembers the fear on Wy’s face, and how that fear was overcome by a look that she only knows how to describe as heartbroken. After that she remembers only that she was given a choice, and he chose to return, but she wasn’t ready yet to have anyone see her, not as she was.  
And so, she flies. She watches her sisters, sometimes, and she things she begins to understand them. In the last days she was so blinded by her own pain, by the way that everyone had failed her, that she missed a lot of things.

When she was alive the first time, she saw who and how much her older little sister loved, and she tried to make it ugly. She tried to spread the shame in her around like rot, to get it to take hold. Now she wonders, why? After all, Wy’s misery never helped make her less miserable.

But it doesn’t work. And now she laughs to herself because _of course_ it doesn’t work. Wy doesn’t care about orientation, anymore that she cares about who has better hair or nicer teeth. When, in the present, she sits on the fence at (her old) home, she sees how much Wy loves, how she loves their little sister, how much she doesn’t care about shared genes or blood, how much she loves the sheriff girl with the ridiculous name, how much she love the men that come and go out of her life, even when they sometimes don’t deserve it all that much.

She is away when her sisters’ world freezes. She’s gone out into the sky to feel what it’s like to be able to go as far away as she wants, when she wants. In the process she sees both coasts, and deserts, and forests, and people who don’t sell their own children, people who don’t sacrifice one child for another.

Willa returns just before her niece is born. She sees her aunt, the last living relative other than her sisters, take the baby. She watches a helicopter fly away, and knows that, whatever she thinks of her aunt, her oldest little sister has probably committed the most selfless act she’s ever witnessed. Then later, after Wy’s alone, she hears her, crying in a way that is more like howling, heaving, screaming, shaking sobs that rattle her whole body.

It’s in this moment that Willa hears without hearing, and knows without knowing, exactly what she has to do. She isn’t sure if a voice actually speaks or if she feels the words in her own mind. But this is what she remembers:

“The world is full of injustice, and most people are cowards. But if you choose you can go back. Do you choose to try to help her?”

And after the contemplation of months that feel like moments, but that somehow also became years, Willa answers in her own voice, “Yes.”


End file.
